'You have a wax sigil on your ledgers and letters of credit. I've seen
it, making my deposits. Put your seal on a sheet of parchment?
'And incriminate myself?' said Requin. 'No.'
'Already thought about that,' said Locke. 'Don't write a name on it. Don't date it, don't sign it to anyone, don't even add your usual "R". Just write something pleasant and totally nonspecific. "Look forward to comfort and hospitality." Or, "Expect every due consideration.'"
'Trite bullshit. I see,' said Requin. He removed a sheet of parchment from a desk drawer, touched a quill to ink and scrawled a few sentences. After sprinkling the letter with alchemical desiccant, he looked back at Locke. 'And this childish device will be sufficient?'
'As far as his fears are concerned,' said Locke, 'Callas is a child. He'll grab at this like a baby grabbing for a tit.'
'Or a grown man,' muttered Selendri.
Requin smiled. Gloved as always, he removed the glass cylinder from a small lamp atop his desk, revealing a candle at its heart. With this, he heated a stick of black wax, which he allowed to drip into a pool on the sheet of parchment. Finally, he withdrew a heavy signet ring from a jacket pocket and pressed it into the wax.
'Your bait, Master Kosta.' He passed the sheet over. 'The fact that you're skulking at the service entrance and trying to hide beneath that cloak both suggest you're not planning on staying in the city for long.'
'Back south in a day or two, as soon as my shipmates finish offloading the, ah, completely legitimate and responsibly acquired cargo we picked up in Port Prodigal.' That was a safe lie; with dozens of ships offloading in the city every day, at least a few of them had to be carrying goods from criminal sources.
'And you'll bring Callas back with you.'
'Yes.'
'If the sigil isn't sufficient, promise him anything else reasonable. Coin, drugs, drink, women. Men. Both. And if that's not enough, take Selendri's suggestion and let me worry about his state of mind. Don't come back empty-handed.'
'As you wish.'
'What then, for you and the Archon? With Callas in hand, you'll likely be back to this scheme for my vault?
'I don't know,' said Locke. 'I'll be at least six or seven weeks away before I can come back with him; why don't you ponder how I can best serve you in that time? Whatever plan you deem suitable. If you want me to turn him over to the Archon as a double agent, fine. If you want
me to tell the Archon that he died or something ... I just don't know. My skull aches. You're the man with the big picture. I'll look forward to new orders.'
'If you can stay this polite,' said Requin, hefting the purse, 'bring me Callas and continue to be so satisfied with your place in the scheme of things ... you may well have a future in my service.'
'I appreciate that.'
'Go. Selendri will show you out. I still have a busy night lying in wait for me.'
Locke let a bit of his actual relief show in his expression. This web of lies was growing so convoluted, so branching and so delicate that a moth's fart might knock it to pieces - but the two meetings of the night had bought what he and Jean needed.
Another two months of life from Stragos, and another two months of tolerance from Requin. All they needed to do now was steal back to their boat without complication and row themselves to safety.
13
'We're being followed,' said Jean as they crossed the Sinspire service courtyard. They were headed back toward the maze of alleys and hedgerows from which they'd come, the little-used block of gardens and service paths behind the lesser chance-houses. Their boat was tied up at a pier along the inner docks of the Great Gallery; they'd snuck up to the top of the Golden Steps on rickety stairs, ignoring the lift-boxes and streets on which a thousand complications might lurk.
'Where are they?'
'Across the street. Watching this courtyard. They moved when we moved, just now.'
'Shit,' muttered Locke. 'Would that this city's entire population of lurking arseholes shared just one set of balls, so I could kick it repeatedly'
'At the edge of the courtyard, let's make a really obvious, sudden dash for it,' said Jean. 'Hide yourself. Whoever comes running after us?
'Gets to explain some things the hard way.'
At the rear of the courtyard was a hedge twice Locke's height. An archway surrounded by empty crates and casks led to the dark and little-used backside of the Golden Steps. About ten yards from this
archway, acting in unison by some unspoken signal, Locke and Jean broke into a sprint.
Through the arch, into the shadowed alley beyond; Locke knew they had just moments to hide themselves. They needed to be far enough from the courtyard to prevent any of the Sinspire attendants from glimpsing a scuffle. Past the backs of gardens and walled lawns they ran, scant yards from buildings where hundreds of the richest people in the Therin world were losing money for fun. At last they found two stacks of empty casks on either side of the alley - the most obvious ambush spot possible, but if their opponents thought they were hellbent on escape, they might just ignore the possibility.
Jean had already vanished into his place. Locke pulled his boot dagger, feeling the hammer of his own heartbeat, and crouched behind the casks on his side of the alley. He threw his cloaked arm across his face, leaving only his eyes and forehead exposed.
The rapid slap of leather on stones, and then - two dark shapes flew past the piles of casks. Locke deliberately delayed his own movement half a heartbeat, allowing Jean to strike first. When the pursuer closest to Locke turned, startled by the sound of Jean's attack on his companion, Locke slipped forward, dagger out, filled with grim elation at the thought of finally getting some answers to this business.
His grab for the attacker was good; he slipped his left arm around the man's neck at the exact instant he shoved his blade up against the soft junction of neck and chin on the other side. 'Drop your weapon or I'll? was all he had time to say, however, before the man did the absolute worst thing possible. He jerked forward in an attempt to break Locke's hold, perhaps reflexively, not realizing the angle at which Locke's blade was poised. Whether it was supreme optimism or miserable foolishness, Locke would never know, as the man sliced half the contents of his neck open and died that instant, spewing blood. A weapon clattered to the stones from his limp fingers.
Locke put his hands up in disbelief and let the corpse drop, only to find himself facing Jean, who was breathing heavily over the unmoving form of his own opponent.
'Wait a minute,' said Locke, 'you mean?
'Accident,' said Jean. 'I caught his knife, we fought a bit and he got it beneath his own rib cage.'
'Gods damn it, Locke muttered, flicking blood from his right hand. 'You try to keep a bastard alive and look what happens?
1
1
'Crossbows,' said Jean. He pointed to the ground, where Locke's adjusting eyes could see the dim shapes of two small hand crossbows. Alley-pieces, the sort of thing you used within ten yards or not at all. 'Grab them. There may be more of them after us.'
'Hell.' Locke grabbed one of the bows and gingerly handed the other to Jean. The little quarrels might be poisoned; the thought of handling someone else's envenomed weapon in the dark made his skin crawl. But Jean was right: they'd need the advantage if they had other pursuers.
'I say discretion is a pastime for other people,' said Locke. 'Let's run our arses off.'
They sprinted at a wild tear through the forgotten places of the Golden Steps, north to the edge of the vast Elderglass plateau, where they scrambled down flight after flight of nauseatingly wobbly wooden steps, glancing frantically above and below for pursuit or ambush. The world was a dizzy whirl around Locke by the middle of the staircase, painted in the surreal colours of fire and alien glass. Out on the harbour the fourth and final ship of the festival was bursting into incandescence, a sacrifice of wood and pitch and canvas before hundreds of small boats packed with priests and revellers.
Down to the feet of the stairs and across the wooden platforms of the inner docks they stumbled, past the occasional drunkard or beggar, waving their daggers and crossbows wildly. Before them was their pier, long and empty, home only to a long stack of crates. No beggars, no drunks. Their boat bobbed welcomingly on the waves, just a hundred feet away now, brightly lit by the glare of the inferno.
Stack of crates, Locke thought, and by then it was too late.
Two men stepped from the shadows as Locke and Jean passed, from the most obvious ambush spot possible.
Locke and Jean whirled together; only the fact that they were carrying their stolen crossbows in their hands gave them any chance to bring them up in time. Four arms flew out; four men standing close enough to hold hands drew on their targets. Four fingers quivered, each separated from their triggers by no more than the width of a single droplet of sweat.
Locke Lamora stood on the pier in Tal Verrar with the hot wind of a burning ship at his back and the cold bite of a loaded crossbow's bolt at his neck.
i4
He grinned, gasping for breath, and concentrated on holding his own crossbow level with the left eye of his opponent; they were close enough that they would catch most of one another's blood, should they both twitch their fingers at the same time.
'Be reasonable,' said the man facing him. Beads of sweat left visible trails as they slid down his grime-covered cheeks and forehead. 'Consider the disadvantages of your situation.'
Locke snorted. 'Unless your eyeballs are made of iron, the disadvantage is mutual. Wouldn't you say so, Jean?'
Jean and his foe were toe-to-toe with their crossbows similarly poised. Not one of them could miss at this range, not if all the gods above or below the heavens willed it otherwise.
'All four of us would appear ... to be up to our balls in quicksand,' said Jean between breaths.
On the water behind them, the old galleon groaned and creaked as the roaring flames consumed it from the inside out. Night was made day for hundreds of yards around; the hull was crisscrossed with the white-orange lines of seams coming apart. Smoke boiled out of those hellish cracks in little black eruptions, the last shuddering breaths of a vast wooden beast dying in agony. The four men stood on their pier, strangely alone in the midst of light and noise that were drawing the attention of the entire city. Nobody in the boats was paying any attention to them.
'Lower your piece, for the love of the gods,' said Locke's opponent. 'We've been instructed not to kill you, if we don't have to.'
'And I'm sure you'd be honest if it were otherwise, of course,' said Locke. His smile grew. 'I make it a point never to trust men with weapons at my windpipe. Sorry.'
'Your hand will start to shake long before mine does.'
'I'll rest the tip of my quarrel against your nose when I get tired. Who sent you after us? What are they paying you? We're not without funds; a happy arrangement could be reached.'
'Actually,' said Jean, 'I know who sent them.'
'What? Really?' Locke flicked a glance at Jean before locking eyes with his adversary once again.
'And an arrangement has been reached, but I wouldn't call it happy.'
'Ah ... Jean, I'm afraid you've lost me.'
'No.' Jean raised one hand, palm out, to the man opposite him. He then slowly, carefully shifted his aim to his left - until his crossbow was pointing at Locke's head. The man he'd previously been threatening blinked in surprise. 'You've lost me, Locke.'
'Jean,' said Locke, the grin vanishing from his face, 'this isn't funny.'
'I agree. Hand your piece over to me.'
'Jean?
'Hand it over now. Smartly. You there, are you some kind of moron? Get that thing out of my face and point it at him.'
Jean's former opponent licked his lips nervously, but didn't move. Jean ground his teeth together. 'Look, you sponge-witted dock ape, I'm doing your job for you. Point your crossbow at my gods-damned partner so we can get off this pier!'
'Jean, I would describe this turn of events as less than helpful,1 said Locke, and he looked as though he might say more, except that Jean's opponent chose that moment to take Jean's advice.
It felt to Locke as if sweat was now cascading down his face, as though his own treacherous moisture was abandoning the premises before anything worse happened.
'There. Three on one.'Jean spat on the pier. 'You gave me no choice but to cut a deal with the employer of these gentlemen before we set out - gods damn it, you forced me. I'm sorry. I thought they'd make contact before they drew down on us. Now give your weapon over.'
'Jean, what the hell do you think you're?
'Don't. Don't say another fucking thing. Don't try to finesse me; I know you too well to let you have your say. Silence, Locke. Finger off the trigger and hand it over.''
Locke stared at the steel-tipped point of Jean's quarrel, his mouth open in disbelief. The world around him faded to that tiny, gleaming point, alive with the orange reflection of the inferno blazing in the anchorage behind him. Jean would have given him a hand signal if he were lying ... where the hell was the hand signal?
'I don't believe this,' he whispered. 'This is impossible.'
'This is the last time I'm going to say this, Locke.' Jean ground his teeth together and held his aim steady, directly between Locke's eyes. 'Take your finger off the trigger and hand over your gods-damned weapon. Right now.'
BOOK III
CARDS ON THE TABLE
'I am hard pressed on my right; my centre is giving way; situation
excellent. I am attacking.'
